A Welcoming Intrusion
He stared at the blood trickling down the Kitchen Knife and for a moment he thought he was hallucinating. He could feel the tiny pressure in the young girl's arm fade. The little pulsing beats lost strength and warmth. He stared at the tiny torso until he was sure it was real, because if the blood was real, the stab wounds had to be real, and if the fading pulse was real, then the situation was real, and that only meant that the young girl was real.
It was the third time in nearly two weeks he had felt different. It was an odd different, but a different nonetheless. That word different ripped into his mind like a newborn's cry. Annoying and annoying after the first slap. He wanted to slam the newborn against the wall until the head exploded like a very fresh watermelon.
It was easier to shove her into a extra large garbage bag, because she didn't resist. Her limp body had no fight. The girl's name was Lisa McEvoy. He remembered how she trembled when he stood over her. He wasn't particularly a big man, but to a seven year old child, he was a giant. He was wearing a gray tee shirt and brown sweat pants which did nothing to hide his wiry body. She looked up at him and saw something dead in his light blue eyes.
When he grabbed Lisa McEvoy, her eyes went wide with horror and the fear kept dangling in front of her until it slowly moved in.
He walked over to the basement door and slowly opened it up while carrying the body in the black garbage bag over his shoulder as Santa Clause would do. He took his time walking down the wooden basement stairs which creaked under each step he took. He then walked over to a disturbing pile half hidden by the oil tank. The other two bodies hadn't begun to smell, but there were so many flies buzzing around them that they could be heard from ten feet away. It was a grisly pile that just took a stab at reality and then just punched it in the face.
The man squatted down and swung the black garbage bag over toward the front of him while he was facing the oil tank. He was very careful not putting his knees on the oil that leaked from the tank. It was a hot basement, but his hands felt cold as he took Lisa McEvoy out of the bag and stacked her on the pile like firewood. Her mouth was opened wide and her eyes closed shut, but nothing came out. He waited for a few minutes, but no words came from the corpse.
He couldn't remember the first girl's name, but he remembered when they met she closed her eyes and began shaking and fiercely weeping. Nobody was around to hear her beg for her life. It was amazingly sad. She tried to run but the grip he had on her was so strong that he kind of burned her wrists. He remembered because he dressed her wrists with burn cream from an old restaurant first aid kit he had stored away beneath the kitchen sink. That young girl couldn't understand why he was trying to treat her wounds. Nearly every ounce of reality was choked with fear. The air in that house was heavy and sour, and the walls bulging with mold. He didn't care about his surroundings, so why would he care about her burns is what she thought.
He tried to stack the three bodies neatly using the oil tank as support. When he stood up he almost sensed a mist of three young confused ghosts trembling.
“God, what did I do?” he half whispered as he slowly walked to the wooden stairs. “Help me stop, please.”
Lisa McEvoy's ghost moved in closer to her body. On closer inspection, she noticed bruising in the approximate shape of fingers on both forearms. Her earrings that her father bought her after she got her ears pierced were pulled from her ears during the initial struggle. Then she counted the stab wounds to her neck and abdomen. She counted twelve and each one had a slight slant to it while it broke flesh.
Death had to become a welcoming intrusion, because something had to free her from her fears.
© 2015 Frank Atanacio